24 - Strike Midnight
Title: Strike Midnight
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: New Year's Eve, 1941 - America goes out for a champagne run and walks into a confrontation that's been seven years in coming.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Washington D.C. New Year's Eve, 1941.
America pelted out the front door of their hotel--their hotel, the Allies' hotel, and it was kind of fun to have allies, especially when they showed up for holidays--and tried to remember where to find the nearest liquor store. The air was full of spilled champagne and bonfire smoke and fat white snowflakes which spiralled out of the sky and glowed against the streetlights. Right. Two blocks over and across the street. The hotel bar had promised they were stocked up on everything, but he couldn't really blame them for being unprepared for England.
Thirty minutes until the toast. Time to move. No problem. He cut to the gated-up and chained-off park across the street and climbed over the fence. He could still hear the murmurs and excited bubbles of distant parties through the heavy, silent sycamores.
Someone in a heavy coat and a haze of cheap cigarette smoke ducked behind a tree as he passed. America halted. His heart seized for an instant, and then quieted. He screwed on a wide smile and started forward. "Hey!" he greeted. "Skipping out on the party, huh? Thanks, man, it's appreciated."
The first time he'd seen Russia in seven years had felt like a punch in the gut. Now he was just a little breathless. It didn't feel so bad, actually.
Russia leaned back against the long sweep of the treetrunk, and took a drag on his cigarette. Smoke hung heavy in the air as he exhaled. "I thought it might be. Although it's more to escape that piss-poor excuse for alcohol than out of any desire to brighten your evening." He crossed an arm over his waist, propped his other elbow against his wrist. The tip of the cigarette sent a glow flickering over the side of his face.
"But, you're not having some awesome commie party with your delegation?" America tilted his head and grinned. His hair fell across his forehead. "How do communist parties work, anyway? --No pun intended. Do you just sit around waiting to see if the government is going to allocate you some champagne? And then when it doesn't show up, you're all 'I guess this was the will of the people.'"
"Something like that," Russia replied. He smiled, and it was perfect. Even. That crooked twitch of his lips was gone. It made America a little sad, for a moment. "At least it saves us the trouble of going out for more when--don't tell me--England cleans out the bar."
"For the third time this week," he replied brightly. "But it's nice that he's finally getting the chance to unwind." He batted a snowflake off the tip of his nose.
Russia watched the movement of America's hand, and his gaze lingered on the snowflakes skittering through the still nighttime air. "Very nice," he echoed dryly. "I certainly can't blame him: always having to keep one hand on your leash must be tiring."
Nice try. "Kinky," he observed. "Speaking of helping England to relax."
Another harsh pull on the cigarette. "Is that how he finally convinced you to take part in this little war of ours? I thought pure altruism was unlike you."
Whatever you say, little miss charity case. "Putting out for some people definitely counts as altruism," he demurred.
"Indeed it does." Russia shot him a brittle smile. "And in your case, I'm a damn philanthropist."
America paused. Russia certainly wasn't putting the priority on keeping things civil. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. "That's pretty rich," he mused, "Since that whole six week stretch basically was straight-up philanthropy on my part." He scuffed his toe into the damp cake of dead leaves underfoot. "But you're not allowed to admit that happened, anymore, are you? You know, how millions of people would have fucking starved, if it weren't for me." He glanced up. "How do you excuse all that in your head, anyway? All the memories of me nursing you back to health like some feeble grandma? Were you just, like, way sleepy, or something?"
The fabric of Russia's coat caught the tree trunk as he stood, hissed against the knots and curls of bark. He tapped out a fallen trickle of ash with his boot and took a step closer to America. "All I remember is you coming in through the kitchen entrance without being invited." His eyes flashed in the glow of the streetlamps. "But why dwell on the past, America?"
America smirked to himself. Smooth subject change.
"We both know you don't care. Not with every nation singing your praises in the here and now." He let out a short laugh. "God, they're desperate for any help, aren't they?"
"Somebody's gotta save your asses," America agreed. He flicked his hair out of his face and ambled forward, braced his shoulder against a tree trunk. "Time for a hero, yeah? Don't worry, I'll come and help you, too." He kept smiling. "You know. Eventually. After England. And France, and...Belgium, and Scandinavia, and the Netherlands, and oh, I've got to do something about Japan while I'm at it, too..."
Russia twitched one of the ends of his scarf over his shoulder. "I won't be needing your help. We were holding Germany off perfectly well before you got involved--and I don't foresee any change of plans."
"Yeah, you've been doing great," America drawled. He snickered into his sleeve. "Hey, Russia, we're allies now, so let me offer you some expert advice: it helps if you, like, train people how to drive the tanks and fly the planes, instead of just churning them out by the thousands and then parking them all neat and close in lines so they make killer targets for German bombers. But I guess that's communism for you, huh? What's the difference between five thousand Yak-1 fighters on paper, and five thousand Yak-1 fighters with no fucking pilots?"
"And yet I've somehow managed to keep my head above water without your expert advice." Russia drew in a final lungful of smoke, and crushed his cigarette out against the tree, inches away from America's shoulder. A bit of ash trembled onto his sleeve. "You'd know something about being a sitting duck, wouldn't you? Remind me, how many did you lose in that darling little attack in Hawaii?"
America's lips thinned, and he brushed away the flake of ash. "I knew about Hawaii," he muttered. He glanced up at Russia. "Can you say the same? How the hell do you get surprised by an invasion, when the guy says he's going to invade you right in his fucking book?"
Russia lifted an eyebrow. "I can, actually. My boss knew war with Germany was inevitable." He carded a hand through his hair, sending a few snowflakes spinning to the ground. "But we weren't in the cushy position of being able to choose whether or not we were going to join this party. We didn't have to figure out a way to enter the war without losing face."
"Did you think Germany was just gonna wait until you were ready?" America demanded. He straightened off the tree, glared up at Russia, and--wasn't he supposed to be getting champagne for the party? He put it out of his mind. "Please, Russia; even I'm not that naive. Although I guess miscalculations were to be expected, seeing as how your boss has spent the last few years murdering anybody in your military who knew what the fuck they were doing."
"It's a pity that the ones who, as you put it, 'knew what the fuck they were doing,' also happened to be traitors. Better to be ill-prepared for war than torn apart from the inside." A streetlamp dimmed, flickered, and suddenly Russia's face was all shadows. "My boss knew the risks of allowing the Party to splinter off, and he took the best possible route to prevent that from happening."
"Do you even believe the shit that comes out of your mouth?" America struck up his chin, shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. They both stood square and facing each other. "Funny how the 'traitors' just happened to be 'anybody in a position to argue with your boss,' huh?"
Russia shrugged. His eyes were hard. "Traitors tend to be the ones who speak against authority, yes. But I don't see why you're concerning yourself with this."
Subject change number two! America imagined another tally drawn onto his side of a chalkboard.
"Those men were...'commies.'" Russia drew the word out. "Isn't that how you like to say it? What do you care if they live or die?"
"I don't," America served back. "I'm just wondering--what does that feel like? Having a boss who just does whatever he wants, kills anybody he wants, and then lies to you right to your face about it, like you're too stupid to see?" An awful, wide-eyed little grin curled at the corner of his mouth. He scratched the side of his nose. "Christ, talk about a dog on a leash. Does he drag you around the Kremlin by your scarf?"
Russia's jaw tightened. His fingers twitched into his pocket, withdrew holding another cigarette. He produced a match and lit up before he answered. "Careful, America. I might think you're insinuating something about my boss's character." The tip glowed as he inhaled. "I'd hate to have to hit you again."
America beamed. Jackpot. "What, like how he's a evil, murdering dictator, and how you've apparently decided to bend over and take it? Something like that?" He plucked the cigarette out of Russia's mouth and took a drag himself.
A long shudder passed through Russia's body, and he lunged. He was on America before the other nation could even exhale, ramming him back against the treetrunk. His forearm slammed into his throat. "Go on," Russia hissed, "Say it again."
America stared at him, and then giggled, rasping and wet. "So you do still get angry." He flicked Russia's cigarette into the dead leaves, then slammed his elbow into Russia's ribs and brought his knee up savagely between his legs. He shoved the bigger nation down onto the ground when he reeled. America massaged his neck. "Tell me something," he proposed; "How exactly did that go, when he told you to act like I had never helped you? Did you just instantly cave? 'Oh, yes sir, that America kid was never up to any good?' 'Cause if so, that's pathetic." He walked around him. "And if not--" he crouched beside him and grabbed him by the jaw, shoved the back of his head against the ground, just the same way Russia had done to him, seven years ago. "Just how long did you hold on to the truth for me, you sorry son of a bitch?"
Russia arched up, trying to break America's hold on his face. His hand slipped in the dew peppering the blades of grass, and he fell back heavily, snarling. He managed to meet America's eyes, and there was something wild in his gaze, an unspeakable rage. "How did it go?" The words ripped out though his teeth. "It wasn't his idea, America. It was mine."
A few seconds of silence passed. Mark that one on Russia's side, America reflected, around an irrational little knot of hurt. He gave a short, soft laugh. "Wow. So you're even more pathetic than I--"
He was interrupted by a great cheer, rising up all around them. The cold prickled down the back of his collar, and he thought, Midnight. He'd missed his own party. He looked down at the other nation, gave another little laugh. He flexed his fingers around his jaw and knelt over him, forced their lips together, ungentle and crude.
For a sliver of a moment, it was just their breath. Then Russia bit America's lip hard enough to draw blood, planted his hands on his shoulders, and shoved him away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat. "Get the fuck off me."
America crouched back on his heels and dragged his hand over his lips. It throbbed. He gave a bloody smile and said, "What? A kiss at midnight. You don't have that tradition?"
He thought, I'll never have to say our last kiss meant anything ever again.
Russia's fingers curled into the grass, tore little furrows into the damp earth. "Afraid not," he snarled. "But I may have to force down some of your liquor after all. Have to wash the taste out somehow."
America stood and brushed down the front of his jacket. "Yeah, well, buy your own." He turned away from Russia and headed back towards the gate. "We're out."
+++
-The First Washington Conference, also known as the Arcadia Conference, was held in Washington, D.C. from December 22, 1941 to January 14, 1942. It was the first strategic meeting between the heads of government of the United Kingdom and the United States after the United States entered World War II. They weren't, however, the only nations there, as many other allied countries showed up in order to sign the Declaration by United Nations.
-The Declaration by United Nations was a World War II document agreed to on January 1, 1942 during the Arcadia Conference by 26 governments: the Allied "Big Four" (the USA, the UK, the USSR, and China), nine American client states in Central America and the Caribbean, the four British Dominions, British India, and eight Allied governments-in-exile, for a total of twenty-six nations. The parties pledged to uphold the Atlantic Charter, to employ all their resources in the war against the Axis powers, and that none of the signatory nations would seek to negotiate a separate peace with Nazi Germany or Japan.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: New Year's Eve, 1941 - America goes out for a champagne run and walks into a confrontation that's been seven years in coming.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Washington D.C. New Year's Eve, 1941.
America pelted out the front door of their hotel--their hotel, the Allies' hotel, and it was kind of fun to have allies, especially when they showed up for holidays--and tried to remember where to find the nearest liquor store. The air was full of spilled champagne and bonfire smoke and fat white snowflakes which spiralled out of the sky and glowed against the streetlights. Right. Two blocks over and across the street. The hotel bar had promised they were stocked up on everything, but he couldn't really blame them for being unprepared for England.
Thirty minutes until the toast. Time to move. No problem. He cut to the gated-up and chained-off park across the street and climbed over the fence. He could still hear the murmurs and excited bubbles of distant parties through the heavy, silent sycamores.
Someone in a heavy coat and a haze of cheap cigarette smoke ducked behind a tree as he passed. America halted. His heart seized for an instant, and then quieted. He screwed on a wide smile and started forward. "Hey!" he greeted. "Skipping out on the party, huh? Thanks, man, it's appreciated."
The first time he'd seen Russia in seven years had felt like a punch in the gut. Now he was just a little breathless. It didn't feel so bad, actually.
Russia leaned back against the long sweep of the treetrunk, and took a drag on his cigarette. Smoke hung heavy in the air as he exhaled. "I thought it might be. Although it's more to escape that piss-poor excuse for alcohol than out of any desire to brighten your evening." He crossed an arm over his waist, propped his other elbow against his wrist. The tip of the cigarette sent a glow flickering over the side of his face.
"But, you're not having some awesome commie party with your delegation?" America tilted his head and grinned. His hair fell across his forehead. "How do communist parties work, anyway? --No pun intended. Do you just sit around waiting to see if the government is going to allocate you some champagne? And then when it doesn't show up, you're all 'I guess this was the will of the people.'"
"Something like that," Russia replied. He smiled, and it was perfect. Even. That crooked twitch of his lips was gone. It made America a little sad, for a moment. "At least it saves us the trouble of going out for more when--don't tell me--England cleans out the bar."
"For the third time this week," he replied brightly. "But it's nice that he's finally getting the chance to unwind." He batted a snowflake off the tip of his nose.
Russia watched the movement of America's hand, and his gaze lingered on the snowflakes skittering through the still nighttime air. "Very nice," he echoed dryly. "I certainly can't blame him: always having to keep one hand on your leash must be tiring."
Nice try. "Kinky," he observed. "Speaking of helping England to relax."
Another harsh pull on the cigarette. "Is that how he finally convinced you to take part in this little war of ours? I thought pure altruism was unlike you."
Whatever you say, little miss charity case. "Putting out for some people definitely counts as altruism," he demurred.
"Indeed it does." Russia shot him a brittle smile. "And in your case, I'm a damn philanthropist."
America paused. Russia certainly wasn't putting the priority on keeping things civil. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. "That's pretty rich," he mused, "Since that whole six week stretch basically was straight-up philanthropy on my part." He scuffed his toe into the damp cake of dead leaves underfoot. "But you're not allowed to admit that happened, anymore, are you? You know, how millions of people would have fucking starved, if it weren't for me." He glanced up. "How do you excuse all that in your head, anyway? All the memories of me nursing you back to health like some feeble grandma? Were you just, like, way sleepy, or something?"
The fabric of Russia's coat caught the tree trunk as he stood, hissed against the knots and curls of bark. He tapped out a fallen trickle of ash with his boot and took a step closer to America. "All I remember is you coming in through the kitchen entrance without being invited." His eyes flashed in the glow of the streetlamps. "But why dwell on the past, America?"
America smirked to himself. Smooth subject change.
"We both know you don't care. Not with every nation singing your praises in the here and now." He let out a short laugh. "God, they're desperate for any help, aren't they?"
"Somebody's gotta save your asses," America agreed. He flicked his hair out of his face and ambled forward, braced his shoulder against a tree trunk. "Time for a hero, yeah? Don't worry, I'll come and help you, too." He kept smiling. "You know. Eventually. After England. And France, and...Belgium, and Scandinavia, and the Netherlands, and oh, I've got to do something about Japan while I'm at it, too..."
Russia twitched one of the ends of his scarf over his shoulder. "I won't be needing your help. We were holding Germany off perfectly well before you got involved--and I don't foresee any change of plans."
"Yeah, you've been doing great," America drawled. He snickered into his sleeve. "Hey, Russia, we're allies now, so let me offer you some expert advice: it helps if you, like, train people how to drive the tanks and fly the planes, instead of just churning them out by the thousands and then parking them all neat and close in lines so they make killer targets for German bombers. But I guess that's communism for you, huh? What's the difference between five thousand Yak-1 fighters on paper, and five thousand Yak-1 fighters with no fucking pilots?"
"And yet I've somehow managed to keep my head above water without your expert advice." Russia drew in a final lungful of smoke, and crushed his cigarette out against the tree, inches away from America's shoulder. A bit of ash trembled onto his sleeve. "You'd know something about being a sitting duck, wouldn't you? Remind me, how many did you lose in that darling little attack in Hawaii?"
America's lips thinned, and he brushed away the flake of ash. "I knew about Hawaii," he muttered. He glanced up at Russia. "Can you say the same? How the hell do you get surprised by an invasion, when the guy says he's going to invade you right in his fucking book?"
Russia lifted an eyebrow. "I can, actually. My boss knew war with Germany was inevitable." He carded a hand through his hair, sending a few snowflakes spinning to the ground. "But we weren't in the cushy position of being able to choose whether or not we were going to join this party. We didn't have to figure out a way to enter the war without losing face."
"Did you think Germany was just gonna wait until you were ready?" America demanded. He straightened off the tree, glared up at Russia, and--wasn't he supposed to be getting champagne for the party? He put it out of his mind. "Please, Russia; even I'm not that naive. Although I guess miscalculations were to be expected, seeing as how your boss has spent the last few years murdering anybody in your military who knew what the fuck they were doing."
"It's a pity that the ones who, as you put it, 'knew what the fuck they were doing,' also happened to be traitors. Better to be ill-prepared for war than torn apart from the inside." A streetlamp dimmed, flickered, and suddenly Russia's face was all shadows. "My boss knew the risks of allowing the Party to splinter off, and he took the best possible route to prevent that from happening."
"Do you even believe the shit that comes out of your mouth?" America struck up his chin, shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. They both stood square and facing each other. "Funny how the 'traitors' just happened to be 'anybody in a position to argue with your boss,' huh?"
Russia shrugged. His eyes were hard. "Traitors tend to be the ones who speak against authority, yes. But I don't see why you're concerning yourself with this."
Subject change number two! America imagined another tally drawn onto his side of a chalkboard.
"Those men were...'commies.'" Russia drew the word out. "Isn't that how you like to say it? What do you care if they live or die?"
"I don't," America served back. "I'm just wondering--what does that feel like? Having a boss who just does whatever he wants, kills anybody he wants, and then lies to you right to your face about it, like you're too stupid to see?" An awful, wide-eyed little grin curled at the corner of his mouth. He scratched the side of his nose. "Christ, talk about a dog on a leash. Does he drag you around the Kremlin by your scarf?"
Russia's jaw tightened. His fingers twitched into his pocket, withdrew holding another cigarette. He produced a match and lit up before he answered. "Careful, America. I might think you're insinuating something about my boss's character." The tip glowed as he inhaled. "I'd hate to have to hit you again."
America beamed. Jackpot. "What, like how he's a evil, murdering dictator, and how you've apparently decided to bend over and take it? Something like that?" He plucked the cigarette out of Russia's mouth and took a drag himself.
A long shudder passed through Russia's body, and he lunged. He was on America before the other nation could even exhale, ramming him back against the treetrunk. His forearm slammed into his throat. "Go on," Russia hissed, "Say it again."
America stared at him, and then giggled, rasping and wet. "So you do still get angry." He flicked Russia's cigarette into the dead leaves, then slammed his elbow into Russia's ribs and brought his knee up savagely between his legs. He shoved the bigger nation down onto the ground when he reeled. America massaged his neck. "Tell me something," he proposed; "How exactly did that go, when he told you to act like I had never helped you? Did you just instantly cave? 'Oh, yes sir, that America kid was never up to any good?' 'Cause if so, that's pathetic." He walked around him. "And if not--" he crouched beside him and grabbed him by the jaw, shoved the back of his head against the ground, just the same way Russia had done to him, seven years ago. "Just how long did you hold on to the truth for me, you sorry son of a bitch?"
Russia arched up, trying to break America's hold on his face. His hand slipped in the dew peppering the blades of grass, and he fell back heavily, snarling. He managed to meet America's eyes, and there was something wild in his gaze, an unspeakable rage. "How did it go?" The words ripped out though his teeth. "It wasn't his idea, America. It was mine."
A few seconds of silence passed. Mark that one on Russia's side, America reflected, around an irrational little knot of hurt. He gave a short, soft laugh. "Wow. So you're even more pathetic than I--"
He was interrupted by a great cheer, rising up all around them. The cold prickled down the back of his collar, and he thought, Midnight. He'd missed his own party. He looked down at the other nation, gave another little laugh. He flexed his fingers around his jaw and knelt over him, forced their lips together, ungentle and crude.
For a sliver of a moment, it was just their breath. Then Russia bit America's lip hard enough to draw blood, planted his hands on his shoulders, and shoved him away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat. "Get the fuck off me."
America crouched back on his heels and dragged his hand over his lips. It throbbed. He gave a bloody smile and said, "What? A kiss at midnight. You don't have that tradition?"
He thought, I'll never have to say our last kiss meant anything ever again.
Russia's fingers curled into the grass, tore little furrows into the damp earth. "Afraid not," he snarled. "But I may have to force down some of your liquor after all. Have to wash the taste out somehow."
America stood and brushed down the front of his jacket. "Yeah, well, buy your own." He turned away from Russia and headed back towards the gate. "We're out."
+++
-The First Washington Conference, also known as the Arcadia Conference, was held in Washington, D.C. from December 22, 1941 to January 14, 1942. It was the first strategic meeting between the heads of government of the United Kingdom and the United States after the United States entered World War II. They weren't, however, the only nations there, as many other allied countries showed up in order to sign the Declaration by United Nations.
-The Declaration by United Nations was a World War II document agreed to on January 1, 1942 during the Arcadia Conference by 26 governments: the Allied "Big Four" (the USA, the UK, the USSR, and China), nine American client states in Central America and the Caribbean, the four British Dominions, British India, and eight Allied governments-in-exile, for a total of twenty-six nations. The parties pledged to uphold the Atlantic Charter, to employ all their resources in the war against the Axis powers, and that none of the signatory nations would seek to negotiate a separate peace with Nazi Germany or Japan.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.